


i thank god that i'm not you

by iamsolarflare, Woosh_Official



Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [10]
Category: DreamSMP, Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Hermitcraft, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, cursing (a good amount. thanks wilbur), if you think hels is bad welsknight is arguably worse in this au WHEEEEE, inter-faction discourse with the Revolutionaries, woosh add extra tags if you want i don't know what genre this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsolarflare/pseuds/iamsolarflare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woosh_Official/pseuds/Woosh_Official
Summary: Wilbur's been hitting the honey again. Other Revolutionaries are taking notice. Not all of them are his friends.
Relationships: None
Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717144
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	i thank god that i'm not you

**Author's Note:**

> hello yes solar here i'm back on my bullshit and this time woosh helped me write a crossover. also, everyone in this au has Fancy London Names so i'm just gonna. have this little disclaimer at the top of every fic.
> 
> characters appearing/mentioned: Wilbur "Soot" Asheshire (Wilbur Soot), Sir Hellion "Hels" Chiaroscuro (Helsknight). Trevor "Techno" Blaine (Technoblade) and Phillip "Phil" Zanden (Philza) are mentioned briefly.

Wilbur’s in a dream. That’s fine. He barely leaves the dream state anymore anyways, so this isn’t new to him. Life’s too fucking sucky to go back there either way. 

What _is_ new, though, is the shadow man in the dream with him. Just out of the corner of his eyesight -- ah, nope, they’re approaching him. This is, he realizes with a heavy internal groan, someone in the real world standing over him disapprovingly. Probably a constable. Maybe one of his friends.

He slurs a few insults at the man through his stupor, telling him that there’s nothing wrong with a few drops of honey every once in a while. He’s got a hard life, what better way to get away from it than with the sweet sticky substance he’s influenced by now? Wilbur can’t see the man’s reaction, the person’s completely silent and even their body language remains proper and _aristocratic_. Ugh.

He tries to stand, meeting the man at where his eyes should be. It doesn’t work, and the stranger still hasn’t shifted their posture at _all_ , and this makes Wilbur even angrier. He shouts what he can, telling him to leave him alone, you don’t mess with a honey mazed man on the streets like this, that’s just plain _rude._

“Idiot fop of a man,” the figure finally says, his voice sharp and low. Odd accent -- American? Southern? “Don’t know why I even bother.” The man raises his cane and brings it down directly on Wilbur’s head, and then everything goes black.

Wilbur doesn’t wake up on the streets like he usually does, nor at his apartment like he does when either Phil or Techno finds him. The decor is nicer than his sparse apartment over a gambling den, the room’s airy and spacious and while there’s not a _lot_ in the way of decoration, it speaks more to taste than to “sold off all amenities to afford more honey.”

Also the couch he’s lying on is rather comfortable, even if it’s been covered with some sort of sheet. Wait. Couches in London are _never_ this comfortable. This has got to be someone working for the Masters at the best, _an actual Master_ at worst. He doesn’t trust it either way.

“Good _Lord_ ,” that _same voice_ says from somewhere nearby, “your snore would make a Snuffer cry. You sound like you’ve got liquid in your lungs. Honey, probably.”

He shoots straight up, his body naturally taking a defensive position. “Show yourself, Spice Fucker! I’m not afraid of you!”

The man across from him -- seated in a very nice-looking chair, wearing a jet-black coat with shining silver cufflinks -- curls his lip in response. “Oh, _tasteful_ insult,” he drawls, staring at Wilbur. “You really couldn’t be more incorrect if you actively _tried_.”

The black coat seems to cut away a little at the light around the man, as though the area around him is darkened just slightly by its presence; the cufflinks are clearly in place to counteract the effect and glimmer like they’ve been recently polished. Black hair perfectly cut in a long ponytail… the sparse decorations leading the eye to the center of the room, where of _course_ the man is sitting… the fact that the nice couch he’s on is covered by _painter’s cloth_ as though staining it with some bum’s presence would be a disgrace... this place absolutely _reeks_ of money in high places. Wilbur scowls back at what he is absolutely _certain_ is an aristocrat masquerading as a man who wants to help those below him. He had been called pathetic, but the man across from him is as pitiful as they come.  
  
“Are you quite done staring yet?” The man rolls his eyes. “I was told you had a sharp tongue when you were sober, and yet here you are just lazing about like some bored aesthete.”

“How the hell am I incorrect, _aristocrat?_ Did I mention the wrong Master, maybe? Who’s your patron, your _cocksucker?_ Wines? Veils? _Fires,_ perhaps?”

“None of them,” the man responds. He crosses his feet, dark-colored boots with grey laces tied… wait a fucking second, that’s _code_ . This is a man with revolutionary ties. _Liberation_ ties. And also has committed _murder_ ties. The last part isn’t that important, but pretty damn good to know.

“Who in the everloving shit _are you?_ ” Wilbur asks, voice somewhat quiet on instinct. Names aren’t something to be shouted, like those young men on Moloch Street trying to be something bigger than they will ever be. When on this level, you keep your voice low and your head high. WIlbur was doing exactly one of those things, while the man sitting across from him was doing both, including giving him quite possibly the shittiest look of disgust and pity one could ask for.

The man smiles, a thin line of clean teeth. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sir Hellion Chiaroscuro, or just Hels. You’re Asheshire, yes?”

“Wilbur Asheshire, but most call me Soot,” he responds with a fake smile. This is awful. This is worse than going to literal Hell, actually. “Why in the world did you knock a mazed man out and take him to what I can assume to be your townhouse in Veilgarden?”

“Because otherwise you would’ve just stumbled around half-drunk until a Jack or a particularly enterprising thief slit your throat.” Hels rolls his eyes. “Not particularly bright, are you?”

“I’m bright enough to be a Revolution leader, for your information. I _also_ happen to have friends in good standing who are more than willing to lend a hand when I’m in a dream. Ever heard of Trevor Blaine?”

“Heard of him, sure.” Wilbur tries not to wilt in disappointment at the fact that _Sir Hellion_ \-- what a fucking _pretentious_ title -- doesn’t even flinch at the name he’s just dropped. “Does it matter? I’m no Black Ribboner, so you can hardly expect me to go get myself killed by someone who minds his own damn business.”

“What I’m getting at is that you’re not the only one with influence, _Liberator._ ”

That cold grin on Hels’s face just gets wider. “You say that like it’s a _bad_ thing. Aren’t you a Revolutionary yourself, Wilbur? Or are you just playing at it because it gets you honey for cheap?”

“I’m in it for the destruction of those _beasts_ we call the Masters, thank you very much! What about you? Are you just in it for the wealth it can bring you? It sure fucking seems like it! How about you use that money helping the Revolution instead of looking like a Veils, Spices, Wines-- _whatever_ cocksucker you are, huh?!”

“Bless your heart.” Hels rolls his eyes. “You got a bad spoonful of honey and decided to throw yourself headfirst into a well expecting massive societal change, as though running around in rags screaming is likely to effect any change besides losing you friends. You think going North is going to do you any good, Soot? Anything besides prove to the common walkabout that Revolutionaries are all a bunch of screaming disgraces to society with nothing better to do than go Seeking? You’re practically playing into their hands, proving their point, and _you’re paying out your ass for their goods_ on top of everything else.”

Wilbur seethes with anger. Who does this motherfucker think he _is?_ What does he know about the common folk?! What does he know about savings?! Hell, what does he know about _Seeking?!_ He’s probably never even heard the voices in the wells, the remarks they say in his dreams, the--

Wait. He hasn’t told _anyone_ about his Seeking, besides Techno and Phil. Wilbur made sure to hide the scars he had as best he could. How did this stranger who smacked him in the head one night know his whole life story?

“You know that’s just another one of _them_ down there, right?” Hels’s expression is neutral, carefully blank save for the faintest amount of disdain. “Cut up and murdered one of their own kind for a contract that didn’t even go all the way through. Two whole cities ago, actually. And now he calls from the bottom of the wells, hoping for any idiot guttersnipe with no two braincells to rub together to buy his sob story and tear themselves apart.”

His fake smile had already disintegrated a while ago, but now his composure has completely turned sour. He snarls at the man, his voice low and dripping with venom. “ _Who. Did. You. Talk to.”_

The man pulls at his high collar and exposes something. A marking, some vague Correspondence scrawl, long since scarred over. “Who do you _think_ I talked to?”

He sits there for a second, unmoving and silent. Wilbur takes a short breath. “You… you’re a Seeker.”

“An _ex-_ Seeker,” Hels corrects him, leaning forward. “Until I realized I was really just playing into yet another Master’s hands.” His stare is even and piercing.

“You--you have everything you’ve ever wanted and still went Seeking. You’re a Liberationist for Christ’s sake, why would you need--what do you _gain_ from it?”

“You’re kind of an idiot,” the man responds. “I _didn’t_ have any of this. I was exactly like you, a honey-mazed fool scrabbling around in the gutters for meaning and some grand universal justice.” Hels smiles again, that sharp-toothed expression that doesn’t meet his eyes. Wilbur’s gut churns. “Here’s a secret Mister Eaten won’t tell you, Soot. He’s not going to save you. He’s not going to tear down any corrupt people in power or explode the houses of business moguls or what have you. You want liberation? You want justice? _You do it yourself._ ”

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to _do._ The man in front of him is a sinister son of a bitch who probably cares more about himself than any form of Revolution, but Wilbur knows that Hellion’s right. That maybe he’s known this since he followed the voices in the wells, since he got these bloody fucking scars, since the minute he got the idea to start a revolution by himself, with no money to his name and no importance to anyone in particular. This was an entire life-long mistake, but he’s far too deep into it to turn back now. 

Wilbur composes himself once more and looks into Hellion’s cold, storm gray eyes. This man knows what he’s doing, and to be fair, he needs more than a little guidance.

“What are you suggesting?”

The smile reaches Hels’s eyes at long last, and Wilbur internally decides that actually this is a _lot worse_ than a fake smile. The glint in his eyes is positively murderous -- this is not a nice person, this is not a nice man, he _knows_ he’s being suckered right now and he _can’t do anything about it_ because Hels is _right._

“How much do you _actually_ know about the Liberation of the Night, Wilbur?”

**Author's Note:**

> huge shoutout to woosh for letting me write hels absolutely dunk on wilbur for like 20 minutes straight. also lace code is a really intricate and detailed thing in fallen london according to the 25 renown item you get from the revolutionaries and i think that kicks so much ass -solar
> 
> heehoo wilbur is a dumbass whos so fucking high he can get BONK!ed without any alarm - woosh
> 
> [also solar is a super cool writer, go check em out everywhere else, go read every single one of the fics written by the other super cool peeps in the series]


End file.
